


Question Time

by cgner



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Politics, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7472850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cgner/pseuds/cgner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newly-elected Prime Minister Potter has his work cut out for him. If only a certain red-headed MP weren’t deliberately making life harder for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Question Time

**Author's Note:**

> Three cheers for Katie and Lindsey, who held my hand as I ventured into new territory. Three more cheers for Nikki for correcting my British politics. This wouldn't have been possible without your guys' encouragement. :)

James has just delivered a particularly ribald answer to a question on nuclear power when it’s her turn. He leans on the podium with one arm and turns sideways, looking back to find her.

The Honorable Member for Hastings and Rye sits tucked up on a backbench among a bunch of senile old men from Labour, a vibrant shock of youth and color among drab suits and grey hair. The Conservatives are still booing him, but she takes no notice. She stands with her shoulders back, her red hair tucked in a practical bun, and a vintage scarf tied elegantly around her neck.

James sends her a winning smile.

“The Prime Minister may not be aware,” she begins, ever so respectfully, “that in the month since he took up residence at Number 10, there has been a fifteen percent increase in total household expenditures.”

She’s suddenly drowned out by a wave of discontented noises from James’s Labour mates. She’s one of Vance’s and fuck it all, why didn’t Vance warn James about this?

“The Prime Minister,” she continues, “has filled several vacancies that were not utilized by the previous administration. In addition, food expenses have remained level, despite the fact that the current Prime Minister lacks the wife and two children of his predecessor.”

James doesn’t need to glance at the opposition bench to see Riddle’s eyes growing wide in glee. There’s no need, not when he can single out Riddle’s triumphant voice in the cacophony of support from the other side of the room.

“Would the Prime Minister please explain how one bachelor can require so much government support?”

He waits for Dumbledore to calmly but effectively ask the MPs to settle down—“Truly, the public does not wish to see their elected officials making a spectacle of themselves”—and leans in toward the mic.

“If these figures are indeed accurate,” he says, and he can’t be as snide as if she were a Conservative, but he still layers in a bit of authority to remind her that he’s in charge, and _her_ party agreed to have him lead the coalition, “I can promise I will get to the bottom of them immediately.” Booing from the opposition. “I admit I’m initially skeptical – I think we can all see that I’ve not gained fifteen percent of my weight.” Chuckles from his party. “I suspect there must be some level of difference in accounting practices between my staff and the previous staff because I can promise you that I’ve yet to do more than scarf down a sandwich since taking office. We’ve been too busy fleshing out the details of the education reform proposal to throw, what I assume the Honorable Member from Hastings is implying, lavish champagne parties.”

The cheerful uproar from around James battles the _ooo’s_ from the Conservatives, and Dumbledore has to bring them down again.

They move on quickly enough to another question from a Conservative, this one on penal reform, but James spares a look back to the Hastings woman—Evans, according to the Order Paper—to see her face.

Her jaw’s set, but otherwise she seems to be repressing her outrage at his complete avoidance of the vacant positions. Probably also his lack of real response to any of it, but he’s not prepared to discuss it, and anyway, his household budget is such a miniscule part of the overall budget, who cares?

Except the public will. The media might pick up on this story and Remus is probably already running the figures for a press release.

Remus is at his side the moment James leaves the Commons Chamber. He summarizes a series of updates delivered to him via his mobile while they walk. Sirius bought him the toy – the newest thing, and even though it weighs several pounds, Remus adores it.

“You actually misrepresented those jail figures—just a hair, nothing I’m worried about—and nice comeback on the nuclear angle—”

“Thought you’d like that—”

“Those household figures, though—”

“Am I really eating that much food?”

“She’s not wrong, James.”

James stops in his tracks, the squeak of his shoes echoing in the corridor.

“How can that be possible?” He tries to keep his voice low – they’ve stopped in front of some clerk’s office, and someone’s always listening.

“We’re looking into it—”

“Christ, Remus, we don’t have time for this sort of nonsense—”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation. The staff are easy enough to address, we learned from your predecessor how vital communications employees are—”

“Bloody right we did.”

They press on, winding through the corridors and down a staircase.

“The staff issue is easily waved off, they used to have even more staff under Thatcher. But I’ll look into the household expenses.”

“It’s not like I bloody asked them to redecorate—”

“They were needed and overdue repairs that the previous administration neglected to perform—”

“And 10 Downing Street is an historic building, yeah, yeah, I got it. But Evans.” James steps outside into a grey drizzle. “I haven’t seen her before – does she usually come in late? But I haven’t see her by the door—”

“This is the first week she’s been in London.”

James slides into the waiting car. “First-time member and she’s already skiving off?”

Remus climbs in after him. “Her father was dying.”

“Oh.”

“Rather.”

Sirius is sprawled out on the seat facing James, drinking from a monogrammed hipflask. “Whose father was dying?”

“Some red-head from Sussex.”

“And we care because….”

“Sirius,” James warns as the car begins to move, “have you been ordering in from that French place?”

“Sometimes. Why?”

“Fuck.”

Remus nods.

“What?” Sirius asks, annoyed.

“I’m on it,” Remus tells James.

“It can’t be _that_ much,” James says.

“Probably not, but if those receipts get out….”

James holds out his hand for the flask and downs a swig.

Bloody Evans.

Bloody Vance.

Bloody Riddle.

\--

His staff dig around, and after a few days James invites Evans to his office to discuss the figures.

Remus insists he can do it for James—no need for him to bother with a Lib Dem backbencher—but Vance….

Vance loves Evans. In fact, everyone loves Evans, or at least the people James have brought her up with do. There’s just a bit of _oomph_ in their voice when they talk about her, a mixture of respect and admiration, even if they disagree with her.

Between Vance and Remus, James learns that Evans’s father died of lung cancer, that she’s never held political office before, and that she’s bloody clever.

And, most importantly, that she does not appear to give a single fuck about her political future.

“We only let her run because everyone adores her,” Vance says over spiked tea. “We’ve only got a couple seats in her county, and I suspect we only got one of them because she ran.”

“But you can’t control her?”

Vance smiles knowingly. “Tell me, are you familiar with the Sussex motto?”

“Can’t say I am.”

“ _We wunt be druv_. She won’t be driven, James.”

“Shit.”

Vance nods, a few graying curls near her temples bobbing. “Was she right?”

“Partially.”

“I’d’ve warned you if I’d known.”

“I know,” James sighs.

Peter shows Evans in after Vance has gone and the kettle’s been refilled.

She’s wearing a golden dress, professional and sharp, and her eyes flash at him, daring him to try to explain things away.

He gives it a go.

“Thank you so much for coming over to discuss these figures,” he says.

She takes the seat across the coffee table and refuses to touch his tea set. “Would the Prime Minister care to explain them?”

“James, please.” He smiles.

“Sir,” she says tartly.

He gives her the talking points Remus developed about the staff and the food and the repairs. She sits with her back straight up and a look that brooks no bullshit, looking perfectly in place on the antique sofa he’s been meaning to replace but hasn’t got around to yet (and won’t at this rate).

“Right,” she says once he’s finished, and digs into her briefcase. She slides the tea tray aside and drops an intimidating stack of papers next to it, the pages highlighted and flagged with colorful stickies. “The blue ones are on food, the red ones on staff salaries, and the green on general household purchases.”

“Perfect.” James picks them up and flips through to find she’s written comments and questions next to different purchases. This is going to be a nightmare. “I’ll read through and get back to you.”

“Or your plentiful staff will.”

“I wasn’t aware Lib Dems were such fiscal conservatives.”

“I wasn’t aware you ran on a platform of government extravagancy.”

“The tea is P.G. Tips.”

“And your apparent favorite restaurant is the most expensive one in a mile radius.”

James bites back his retort that it’s not _his_ favorite.

“You realize I don’t personally authorize every minor expenditure,” he says, trying to rein himself in.

“Are you making excuses?”

“No, I’m saying this isn’t something that requires my personal, undivided attention.”

“I’ll make sure to pass on that message to everyone else.”

He could strangle her. She’s supposed to be clever, but her myopia seems to be getting in the way.

“Do I stand for fiscal responsibility?” He climbs to his feet. “Of course I do. But if you think that this is going to be the top priority, over economic policies and national security, you’re sorely mistaken.”

She stands up, and with her heels she’s nearly at eye level with him. “I’m not asking you to prioritize it over everything else. I’m asking you to run your internal household the way you’d run the whole government, which is to say with _respect_ and _attention_.”

“I run this place with plenty of _respect_. D’you know what percent of the total budget my household comprises?”

“I do, in fact.”

“I’m looking into this – are you happy?”

“Not remotely.”

“D’you _want_ to be politically isolated? Because Vance and I—”

“I wasn’t aware I reported to you, _sir_. I believe I report to my constituents.”

James runs a hand through his hair. “Right. Brilliant. If that’s all, then. We’re looking into it. Most of it is reasonable. Anything out of line will be tamped down.”

“And yet you only looked because I asked.”

“It’s been a _month._ ” Oh, Christ, his heart is racing, and this isn’t good at all, she’s going to run to the papers with this in an instant, but fuck if he can stop himself. “You’re comparing a month of my data to _years_ of baseline data.”

And she has the fucking nerve to smile.

“Thank you,” she says.

“ _Thank you_?”

“That’s a reasonable statement, one lacking in the bullshit of most of your speeches.”

“I loathe bullshit just as much as you do.”

“And yet you’re swimming in it most of the time.”

He’s going to do something very, very stupid if she doesn’t go. Now.

“Right,” he says tightly. “I’ve got another appointment. Thank you for coming by.”

He walks her to the door, and of course he has no luck today, and she spins around.

“I expect to see better figures next month.” Her eyes are flashing again, and Christ but they’re so fucking _stunning_ , brilliant green, and he loses himself in them for a moment.

Mistake. Utter mistake.

“I expect better of you, Potter,” she says.

He kisses her.

It’s such a terrible fucking idea, but he’s worked up beyond proper, rational thought, and she’s so _maddening_.

She takes a moment and then kisses back, one hand darting up to clasp the back of his neck while the other drops her briefcase, and her mouth is so warm, and oh God, the thing she’s doing with her _tongue_ —

He pushes her up against the door and shoves his hands on either side of her, fingernails scraping against the wood, and she’s _devouring_ him, and she makes this noise that he can only think of as _hungry—_

 _This is a terrible mistake._ He’s gone about this all wrong and she probably feels violated and no woman will ever vote for him again if word gets out he goes around snogging every woman that walks into his office.

“Wait,” he breathes.

“Shut up,” she says, and snogs him again.

He can’t think for the thudding of blood through his temples and the roar in his ears, the breathy noises she’s making—or maybe he is, he can’t sort them out—and she pushes his chest with her free hand. His glasses sit askew on his nose, but he leaves them, unwilling to let go of where he’s now clinging onto her arms. They move together, taking awkward, short steps while trying not to separate, until he’s backed up against that awful sofa.

“The desk,” she says. “Door’s too noisy.”

He nods frantically, and she pulls him by his tie over to his desk. It’s clean for the moment—he wanted to make a good impression—and she hops up to sit on it, her heels thudding against the wood.

He’s not even worried about any damage because she starts nipping at his lips and fondling his hair with one hand. Her fingers run through his locks, running from root to end, over and over again. His palms land on her shoulders for stability—she’s still holding onto his silk tie and pulling him down to lean at a slight angle—and he steps forward until his knees bang into the desk between her legs.

A small corner of his mind chirps that the curtains are open and the doors are unlocked, but somehow that makes things _worse_. His pants have never felt so tight, and it feels eerily and horrifically like he’s sixteen again, but even that thought isn’t enough to help bring him back—

Her fingernails scratch against his scalp, and oh, _fuck_ , she _can’t_ do that again—

But then she does, and fuck it all, he breaks away from her mouth and shudders uncontrollably, his knees buckling and his hands clenching around her shoulders and his mouth clamping down around a groan.

He can’t even enjoy it or hate himself for being such a _boy_ because the phone bleats out next to them.

Her hands release his tie and hair, and he can’t meet her eyes, instead grabbing desperately for the phone, nearly knocking it away in the process.

“Yeah?” he says, his voice a bit ragged.

“Your three o’clock is running five minutes late,” Peter says.

“Grand. Thanks.”

James drops the phone onto the receiver and lets out a heavy sigh.

She clears her throat. “Did you really—”

“Shut up.”

He still can’t look at her, but he hasn’t moved away either, one of his hands still on her shoulder, the other readjusting his glasses.

She smells nice. Her perfume isn’t floral, or any other particular scent he recognizes. It’s just nice.

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks out second after second of silence.

“Should I take that as a compliment,” she finally says, “or is that normal—”

“Definitely you. That hasn’t happened to me since I was nineteen. You’re just—this was just….”

“Thanks?”

He looks up at her, and she’s ready to laugh, but not at him.

With him.

She doesn’t, though.

“I’m going to go,” she says instead.

“Er, all right.”

He backs away, and she hops down, quirking a smile at him.

He watches her tidy herself up in front of a mirror above the fireplace mantle, touching up her lipstick and hair, while he tries to discreetly adjust his pants.

“D’you want me to—” he begins. “You must be, er….”

“I can manage.” She gives him a bit of a patronizing look in the mirror.

“I feel really awful, I can do something quick if you’re able—”

“Mood’s ruined, and you’ve got a three o’clock. Or three-oh-five, rather.”

“Right.” His arms dangle awkwardly at his sides. “Right.”

She grabs her briefcase and walks to the door. “I’ll check in with you later.”

“Thanks,” he manages, although he’s not sure if she means about _that_ or the numbers. Or both.

She leaves, and he falls back onto his sofa, smashing a throw pillow on top of his face and groaning. Remus will scold him for the wrinkles in his This Is A Piece of Art, James, Don’t Ruin It suit.

Not a minute later, the side door snicks opens. Sirius’s footsteps approach him, then pause.

“I brought scotch but now I’m reconsidering that decision.”

James makes an indistinct but clearly unhappy noise.

“She was that bad, eh?”

James lets out a sob of laughter into the pillow because he might’ve just ruined his career. Also his reputation. But mostly his career.

“I’ve made a huge mistake,” he says, although it’s muffled by the pillow.

“What did you tell her—wait a minute.”

The pillow is yanked off of his face, and Sirius hovers over him.

“Tell me you didn’t.”

“I might have.”

“ _James_.”                                           

“Not really, though. We, er, didn’t quite….”

Sirius’s eyes flick down. “For fuck’s sake, James.”

James grabs the pillow back and covers his face with it. He needs to change pants and probably suits altogether before his next meeting but he can’t manage to show his face, let alone get off the sofa.

“New priority for you,” he says. “Have Remus look up whether this will be the shortest government in history. I just want to be sure that I’m the youngest Minister _and_ the shortest-lived one before the vote of no confidence.”

They’ll probably set minimum age restrictions now. He’s twenty-eight, so naturally no one under thirty will be allowed to run. Any age that is older than him will be considered suitable. Anyone under thirty clearly can’t keep their trousers on, the media will say. As though there aren’t scads of pervy old men in either House.

“I can’t believe you,” Sirius says.

“Don’t you have a committee meeting to be at or something?”

“Who can even remember which committee I’m on? None of the peers has ever bothered me about attending. We’re all much happier with me here. Except maybe you right now.”

“Better call Remus,” James says. “He needs to start writing my resignation speech.”

\--

Remus’s rebuke is almost entirely nonverbal: the crease in his forehead, the slight downturn of his lips, the narrowing of the eyes.

It’s as effective as ever, though. As if James didn’t already feel sixteen again.

But by some miracle, no phone calls from journalists come. At least, not about this. And no threats or lawsuits come from Evans, although it’s early yet.

And the rest of the week passes and nothing happens, other than his face flaring red whenever he thinks about it.

He’s not sure he can face her again. Or what he’d do if he managed.

On Monday Sirius stops by Evans’s offices to try to get a read on the situation. Even an inkling of whether Evans is planning, well, anything. He returns outraged when Evans’s office manager, something McKinnon, absolutely refused to let Sirius meet with Evans personally.

“They threatened to call _security_ ,” Sirius says. “Like I’m not equally entitled to wander about the Palace of Westminster.”

James gives a panicked smile. “Let’s just hope McKinnon isn’t aware of the situation, eh?”

And then it’s Wednesday again. He’s barely slept since it happened and he has to lean against the dispatch box in the Commons for support. Maybe his answers are a little sassier than normal, but he can’t seem to give a flying fuck about transportation projects when his career is on the line.

He really should have looked over the Order Paper beforehand, and it’s not Vance’s fault he’s surprised – even if she noticed, which she probably did, she wouldn’t have had a clue what Evans was planning.

When his eyes flick over Evans’s name on the Paper, he freezes, just for half a second. And then he turns back to face her, his mouth stretched in a neutral smile.

She doesn’t wait for the opposition to stop their jeering before climbing to her feet with perfect poise, her lifted chin announcing to the world that she doesn’t give a fuck what they think.

His cock twitches.

His whole body freezes again, this time for the full two moments it takes her to begin speaking.

He can barely hear for the rushing of blood through his veins and oh, _Christ_ , what if he gets a full erection and the cameras pick it up and the tabloids notice. _Potter’s Perky Prick_ is too alliterative a headline for them to ignore.

She’s halfway into a sentence by the time he manages to get his mind off his prick and back onto her words, which is fucking stupid because she’s probably announcing to the whole fucking world that he came in his pants in front of her.

Although maybe it’s best he doesn’t hear it. If he wants to suffer through it in full later, the BBC will surely be playing it on repeat for the next week. Month. Year, really. For fuck’s sake, even Al Jazeera and CNN will pick up the MP for Hastings accusing the Prime Minister of sexual harassment.

And then some words filter through the fog of panic in his brain and—

She’s talking about signatures. And computers.                                          

There’s no way this has anything remotely to do with his prick.

Thank _fuck._

Except he listens for another few sentences and Christ almighty but she’s annoying. Household expenses are not the topic of choice this week – she’s apparently moved on to something about the Y2K preparation program.

“—would the Prime Minister care to comment on this exceptionally torturous process?”

His mouth starts answering without his brain even really thinking about it—something similar to last week, something about how they’ll look into it, throwing in a tasteful joke or two—because the majority of his brain is dancing the conga in celebration that his prick will not be on the news.

At least, not yet. But if it’s going to be so fucking stupid, and if Evans keeps wearing those fucking perfectly tailored dresses that hug her perfect fucking breasts, it might steal the show yet.

It’s probably best, he thinks as Evans sits back down with a defiant smile on her face, that he switch to more restrictive pants.

\--                                                                                                                       

He stomps into Vance’s office, one hand making a mess of his hair, the other clenched in a fist at his side.

“Can you honestly not get her to let up on _anything_? Or even get some semblance of what she’s going after next so I don’t look like a fucking idiot every week?”

Vance calmly sips her tea behind her desk. “No.”

“Well, fucking fuck.”

She shrugs.

“Why don’t you just throw her out of the party? She doesn’t seem to want to listen to anyone, including you.”

“Would you rather have another Conservative in the Commons instead of her?”

James considers this.

Vance arches an eyebrow. “Really, though.”

“Our margin of majority is more than one vote,” he hedges.

“But is anyone else going to care as much as her?”

He looks down sullenly. “No.”

“As I thought.” She picks up a report from her desk and lifts her reading glasses up, the chain glittering around her neck. “Sorry I can’t be of more assistance.”

“Right.” James frantically ruffles his hair with both hands and then lets them drop to his sides, sighing. “Well, did you at least get Jones to look over the education bill….”

\--

Evans shows up to his office the next day, completely unannounced and completely unapologetic about it. Somehow she managed to distract or persuade Peter to let her in, because when James looks up from his military portfolios expecting to see the tea girl, it’s her instead.

Which is almost a pity because he could really fucking use a biscuit right now—he’s clever, but there are too many -stan countries to keep straight—except fuck if she’s not wearing that same golden dress.

And if that’s not a fucking sign….

He sets down the papers as she shuts the door behind her.

“Anything interesting?” she says.

“Oh, you know.” He’s having flashbacks to sixteen again, this time with his nerves. “Terrorist attack here, ethnic conflict there, nothing to get excited about.”

He lets the papers fall back onto his desk and with one hand begins stacking the three plates full of crumbs arrayed on his desk, while the other hand knocks down the latest memo from International Development, currently draped on top of his desk lamp to dry out after he spilled tea on it.

He pushes back in his chair and stands up too quickly, stumbling in the process and catching himself on his desk. He smoothes his hair back with one hand—it immediately jumps right back up in the bird’s nest it’s always been—and clears his throat.

“So,” she says.

She’s still standing by the door, with what feels like an ocean of dated furniture and carpeting separating them. She’s worn her hair down this time, and it falls in long, flowing waves around her shoulders.

And, all right, her perfect fucking breasts.

He told himself he wasn’t going to think about them but they’re right fucking there, right above her perfect fucking waist and perfect fucking hips and perfect fucking legs _._

And on top of it all that _face_ , with those remarkable eyes, that astounding brain, and that _mouth_ , that perfect fucking mouth, sheened in ruby red and curved into a knowing, alluring, absolutely compelling smile.

“About last time,” he says, before he can think about it.

He wasn’t going to bring it up. He was never going to bring it up and then he would’ve completely forgotten it ever happened, but now he’s brought it up like a twat.

She starts walking toward him, with just a faint swish of her hips, and tosses her clutch onto the sofa. “Do you really want to discuss that?”

“Well, no, I just—not discussing it….”                             

And then she’s standing across his desk from him with her arms folded over her chest. “Say what you want to say, then. I do want to discuss that program.”

“Er, right. Well. I don’t know—that was completely inappropriate of me—I never should have—I’m so bloody sorry, about it and also about the whole in-my-pants thing, and leaving you like that—well, all of it.”

“Right.”

“Now, with regard to the Y2K program.” This he can actually talk about without feeling about twelve. “It’s an incredibly vital infrastructure project—”

“With less bullshit, please.”

“Sir,” he corrects.

It’s fortunate that he’s been entranced by her eyes for the last minute, because he catches the way her pupils widen, the way her cheeks turn a shade closer to the color of her lipstick.

“Sir,” she says, with just a soup _ç_ on of contempt. “Don’t treat me like I’m fucking five.”

“Fine. Fine.” He’s getting it properly, now. He can play this game. “I’ll fucking look into it, all right? Dalton is a good bloke but sometimes he’s a little too hands-off as a manager.”

“And as his ultimate superior, you—”

“I’m fucking on it, all right?”

There’s that flash in her eyes again, defiant and amused and fucking hell, if she’s not aroused, he’s Margaret bloody Thatcher.

Her hand darts out to grab his tie and tug his torso across the desk. He meets her mouth halfway, and fuck if it isn’t awkward as hell with this desk in between them. His knees climb up onto the desk to get a better angle, his teeth clacking against hers in the process.

“Sorry,” he breathes, and he pulls back, his lips already wet. “Gimme just a mo’—can’t help but feel like there’s something between us—”

He clambers over the desk, papers scattering in his wake and drifting onto the floor, his pens and plates trembling, but with two steps he’s surmounted the desk and is standing in front of her.

She yanks him in closer with his tie, until there’s only his suit and shirt and that fucking dress separating his scorching skin from her perfect fucking breasts.

He didn’t appropriately appreciate them last time, nor her mouth, which is just _wicked_ , nipping at his lower lip, again and again—

But he’s not losing it this time. He’s got both his hands this round, thank Christ, because he’s got a lot to make up for.

He somehow manages to not get completely lost in her lips (still toying with his) or her free hand (under his open suit coat, nails raking against his shirt), and focuses on her, letting his fingers trail along her exposed collar bones.

That earns him a shudder, and he lets them move up delicately along her neck to cup her face. Her hair tickles against his skin, her cheeks warm under his palms, and he takes back control, moving against her lips in a long, slow kiss.

“Let me take care of you.” His mouth brushes against hers as he speaks.

She gives a hurried bob of her head, her nose bumping into his glasses and her breath coming out in a pant, and he guides her by the shoulders into a spin with him, standing her once more between him and the desk. He lifts her up by her waist—she lets out a surprise _oh_ and her hands fly up to clutch onto his shoulders _—_ and sets her on the edge of the desk.

He’s going to fucking erase all memory of that awful, awful day.

He’s got more leeway now that she’s given up hold on his tie—not that he minded, he never knew he had a thing for that but fuck if she’s not exposing him to all sorts of new kinks—and he sets about exploring her exposed skin.

She hums contentedly when he brushes his fingers along her inner arms, and shivers when he nips at her earlobe, and positively groans when he finally slides one hand along her thigh to disappear under her dress, her legs clamping together as her hips jerk forward.

“Hold on, already,” he says through a smile.

“I’ll hold on as soon as you get to it.”

At his encouragement, she shimmies her bottom as he hikes her dress up around her waist. In the process he learns that she walked into 10 Downing Street with no knickers and for a second he’s petrified that he’ll come in his pants again at the thought of her strutting past security with her parts exposed.

But he contains himself, swallowing hard, and lowers his head to trail kisses up along her thighs.

He hasn’t done this in a while—he’s been busy winning an election, after all—but she has no complaints when his fingers and then his mouth and then his tongue lavish her with attention.

Peter can probably hear them. Hell, the whole floor can probably hear them, but he takes a page from her and decides not to give a fuck. She’s top priority at the moment. He owes her, and when a swirl of his tongue earns him a sudden yelp, he grins.

“Stop smiling and get back to— _oh_.”

Her hands keep sliding against the papers covering his desk, trying and failing to keep still as he slides his tongue again and again, his hands running gently along her thighs. Every shuffle, every muffled groan she makes sends jolts through his skin. She’s starting to tremble now, and he easily slides one finger inside, and crooks it just so—

“Don’t you fucking stop there, _James_ —”

And then she’s giving out a wailing moan, and her thighs clamp inwards, but his hand keeps at least one leg from strangling him. Her back arches, her heels whack against the desk, and her muscles spasm under him as her hips cant forward, pushing herself uncomfortably against his face.

He pulls his head away as her high passes and reaches sideways to grab a tissue for his face. He swipes it over his chin and mouth, tosses it perfectly into the bin on the end of the desk (or so he assumes—he can’t see it, but he never misses), and starts pressing delicate kisses against her exposed strip of lower stomach. She sags back, papers damp and crinkled under her palms, making short, quiet groans of contentment that send curls of heat through him.

“Mmm.” She shakes back her hair and looks down at him, and he looks up at her, and she grins. “Your turn, then?”

“Doesn’t seem fair, really. This one was for you.”

He kisses her stomach once more and starts to stand up, twisting sideways to crack his back, and then his body tries to jack-knife because she’s brushing her hand over his trouser placket.

“Evans—”

“I can be fiscally frugal,” she says in a teasing lilt, “but with other things, I can afford to be more generous.”

And her hand is on his tie again, pulling him forward.

He whimpers.

He hates himself for it, but at least, he thinks as her hand lowers his zipper, he’s not coming in his pants this time.

\--

“So about the Y2K program.” She pulls down the hem of her dress and checks her face in the mirror.

He tosses the condom in his bin, and it looks so bizarre and out of place against his discarded reports and memos.

“Don’t you trust me to look into it?” he says.

He considers hopping up on the desk but it’s a bit, well, wet, and Remus will quietly murder him in his sleep if he ruins another suit.

“I don’t know.” Evans looks back from the mirror, brushing her fingers through her hair. “Should I?”

“I don’t exactly like inefficiency either, you know.”

“Everyone says that and yet no one does anything about it.”

He steps closer to her, resting his hands on the back of an armchair. “Are you going to bring up something every week?”

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

“Couldn’t you, I dunno, write me a list?”

She throws a sidelong glance at his desk. “Considering the treatment your memos get? No.”

“Oi, that’s not usually what happens to them. I don’t have every woman in Parliament rotating through my office, I’ll have you know.”

Evans laughs and tugs her dress down one more time. “No, you just cover your papers in tea.”

He sighs. “I’ll talk to Dalton about the program.”

“You’d better.”

“Will you—” He rubs the back of his neck. “Can I expect you again, sometime?”

“To speak in Parliament? You can count on it.”

“You know what I mean.”

She doesn’t answer for a minute, too preoccupied cleaning up her lipstick in the mirror.

“Would you like me to?” she finally says, and they make eye-contact through their reflections.

Evans suddenly seems—not vulnerable, but not completely confident, for once.

“Of course,” he blurts out. “I mean, so long as you don’t tell anyone—”

She spins around to face him. “I haven’t told anyone, why would you think I—”

“I’m not accusing you, I’m just saying we can’t—”

“I bloody well know that—”

“Well, good, then let’s just keep not telling—”

“Do you think I’m doing this to blackmail you—”

“I don’t think that, I’m just, well, in a bit of a sensitive position—”

“You’re not the only one—”

“I know,” he says, with an air of finality. “I know this is really fucking stupid for both of us and we could both be completely fucked but I like—I like it.”

“So do I.” She’s defiant again, and it suits her, even if it’s completely misplaced.

“So maybe let’s not do it in my office next time because I didn’t tell Peter but he sure as fuck heard us.”

She nods. “And I assume Lupin knows.”

“And Sirius walked in on me after you left.”

“So that’s three. That’s…acceptable.”

“Unavoidable, so it has to be.”

“Right,” she says to herself. “Three. We can live with three. But if not your office, where….”

“Oh, er, I suppose my bedroom upstairs—”

“People will see me going up there—”

“A hotel in London’s rubbish, that’s too conspicuous—”

“I don’t want my staff to know, so we can’t there—”

They look at each other helplessly for a moment.

“Right,” James says, “this is going to sound completely mad, but you know that empty office off the Commons Lobby—”

“I’m not shagging you in the Palace of bloody Westminster—”

“You shagged me in 10 Downing—”

“It’s a house. Sort of.”

“Well, where then, eh?”

“You’re not coming to my flat.”

“Of course I’m not, I’m not completely stupid.” He pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Well, fuck.”

She glances at the clock on the wall behind him. “I’ve got to run.”

“I’ll—I’ll try to think of something.”

Evans picks up her clutch and tucks it neatly under one arm. “So will I.”

“Right, then.”

He follows her to the door and opens it for her.

“That was a passable explanation,” she says to him, now stern, “but I expect to hear back on that quite soon.”

“Of course,” he says consolingly. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can piece that together for you.”

“Thank you.” She turns back to him and flashes him a small smile. “Sir.”

And then she’s striding away, cool as can be, and James sags helplessly against the doorway.

“So,” he says. “Any chance you didn’t hear?”

Peter continues to type and doesn’t look back. “Not a chance in hell.”

“Well, fuck.”

“Just me, though. I sent everyone else away when she showed up. Said you’d be shouting madly within seconds.”

“That was sort of true.”

Peter spins around in his chair, and he’s biting his lip. “James, I trust you to the moon, but is this—”

“No, it’s a stupid fucking thing to do. I know.”

“Remus is going to have a heart attack.”

James rubs one hand on top of his hair. “What’s another one?”

And Peter looks like he wants to scold James for that, but he doesn’t.

“Sorry, that was completely out of line. You know I—”

“I know.”

“Just—fuck.”

“You could stop fucking her.”

James doesn’t have a smart answer for that and turns back to his office. “Don’t tell Remus.”

“I won’t have to.”

James spins back, but it’s not Remus coming down the corridor.

It’s worse.

Sirius rests one hand on Peter’s desk. “Did I just see Evans leave?”

“Yes,” Peter says.

“Traitor,” James says.

“He saw her,” Peter points out.

“Did you at least shag her properly this time?” Sirius asks.

James takes a quick step back into his office, arm flailing for the door. “I have to read a thing.”

“James,” Sirius warns.

“This thing, it’s really important, can’t be disturbed, bye!”

James slams the door shut and locks it.

That’s going to piss Sirius off more than the shagging—Sirius doesn’t really mind that, but thinks it’s funny to pretend sometimes—but James doesn’t want to talk about it.

So he returns to his desk, slumps in his chair, and lets his head fall forward to connect with his ruined papers.

He is so fucking stupid.

A smile tugs at his lips.

But Evans is so fucking brilliant.

\--

His mates all remind him he’s a fucking idiot. He assures them he’s well aware, but that he and Evans will keep shagging regardless, and it really shouldn’t be in his office anymore.

He sets them the challenge of finding him and Evans shagging locations—they don’t call them that, they call them rendezvous points like this is some fucking Bond novel—and, keeping with tradition, they never fail to deliver.

The first time Sirius slips Evans a file in a Westminster corridor with a snide, “Check the figures again,” and strides away. Inside is the note telling her to meet James in Bristol that weekend.

James finds her lounging in her room at their shared hotel in a wide-brimmed hat and dark sunglasses.

“Why, fancy meeting you here,” she says in a sultry voice, and dramatically tosses off her hat.

He takes her on the bed, hard and fast, and then in the shower, and then on the desk (for old time’s sake).

His security agent scolds him when he comes back to his room for ditching him, but James tells Ellsworth to relax. Ellsworth probably knows. Ellsworth has probably secretly implanted a tracking device in James’s arm when he was sleeping, but Ellsworth can be trusted.

That brings it to four.

He makes it easy for her the next time and follows her to Hastings. There happens to be a ceremony for some church rededication there that he was invited to speak at, and Evans also happens to attend as the local MP, and then she sucks him off in a back closet while Peter stands guard.

James bites his lip and whispers, “I’m going to hell I’m going to hell but _Christ_ don’t fucking stop.”

Ellsworth is on vacation that week and Dhawan is there instead, but her face is as neutral as ever when he finds his way back to her.

That brings it to five.

Probably more, because they’ve got locker rooms and James isn’t fool enough to think they don’t have _any_ office gossip, but they’re professionals. It won’t get outside their group.

But that was inevitable. They probably already knew. They probably bugged his office long before he took over. So long as the recordings never get out, that’s acceptable.

And every Wednesday he stands at the podium, and every week without fail she proudly stands up to announce a new area requiring investigation. James dedicates one of his staff to chasing down her leads, and Miranda’s bright enough to start fixing every fire Evans points out.

The media have, like everyone else in the fucking country, fallen madly in love with the red-haired woman who _wunt be druv_.

They call her Exacting Evans, and every week some columnist tries to guess what she’s going after next. It’s never anything obvious, like military spending or healthcare. It’s always some program in the bowels of government, moldy and unexposed.

And the thing is, it’s not that the government or the civil servants are corrupt as fuck. They’re just stuck, and the arrival of James’s staff shines light on some of the most egregiously outdated processes.

So together they start fixing the odd pieces of government, which is really fucking strange because he’s fucking her on the side, and with Vance he triumphs over the Conservatives to actually put some accountability in the schools (but not too much because local control is still highly valued by his administration, he assures the media).

He and Evans rarely talk about work during their rendezvous. Mostly they just fuck, or talk about things like movies or telly. And that’s the extent of it, for a while.

Except one time she’s sprawled out on the hotel bed in Nottingham, panting heavily, while James rubs the rope marks on his wrists (his sleeves will cover them, probably, so that’s fine), and he asks, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I like fucking you. Now stop talking. I need a minute to savor this.”

He reaches for his shirt but she tugs it out of his grip.

“No clothes yet,” she says, and he lets go.

She flings it toward a chair across the room and rolls onto her stomach, hair flipping over on one side in a delightful mess, arms propping up her chest.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

“I know it’s not. But I thought we weren’t discussing that sort of thing.”

“We don’t have to. But, you know, I am curious.”

“You and everyone else.”

“I read your interviews in the papers. You never talk about it.”

“Because it’s none of their fucking business, is it?”

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”

She ruffles her hair and flips onto her back again, stretching out in the late afternoon sunlight falling across their bed. She’s just stunning. Not that he’s short on charm or looks or money or power, but sometimes he still can’t believe she’s going through all this effort just to shag _him_.

“I only ran for office,” she says, looking toward the gauzy curtains over the windows, “because my dad made me promise.”

James crawls over to lay on top of her, resting his forearms on either side of her, and kisses her once, twice, and then a third time, all long and thorough.

“He said I’d do well,” she adds when James pauses.

“You are doing well.”

“I try.”

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her. “In every possible way. I mean, I haven’t counted them all, but there are a lot.”

Her lips curve into a small smile. “You’re not too shabby yourself.”

“Ta.” He strokes a stray hair off her forehead. “Did he make you promise to be a politician forever?”

“That would be telling.” She grins and gently shoves at his chest. “Now get up. I need to shag you at least once more before Ellsworth really starts to worry.”

“He says hi, by the way.”

“Tell him he’s a dear, and that I haven’t forgotten I owe him a copy of that recipe.”

“Will do,” James says, and drops down to kiss the valley of her perfect fucking breasts.

\--

He’s got used to seeing her name on the Order Paper, and turning around to listen to whatever issue she’s decided on this week (she won’t tell him how she knows all these things, but at this point the staff probably go to her), and coming up with some new variation on “I’ll look into it.”

Then, some months after the election, she sends him a different smile from the backbench. Normally it’s all thin and self-confident, but today it’s a softer line, pleased but not gentle.

“The Prime Minister may not be aware,” she says, “that in the months since his election, household expenditures at 10 Downing Street have decreased significantly, most notably at a per-resident level.”

And that, more than any of her previous openers, sends his mind stumbling. For once, his side of the room breaks out into a roar of cheers while she’s speaking, which gives James a chance to recover. He wants to wink at her, or for her to wink at him, or _something_ , but they mustn’t, so they won’t.

“Unfortunately,” she continues, “progress in environmental licensing lags woefully behind modern standards….”

She’s off again, and Miranda is undoubtedly taking dutiful notes back at the office. James has reorganized two staff to work under her, and she’s taken to running her tiny division with aplomb.

“Never thought I’d hear you sing my praises in public.” He leans against the sink while she runs a bath at the hotel.

This one is claw-footed, and he’s got all sorts of visions for what could happen in it, but for now he savors the way her spine bends gracefully over to reach the tap, and how her hair tumbles down around her.

She flashes him a quick smile over her shoulder. “What sort of message am I sending if I only criticize and don’t celebrate triumphs?”

“I’m only _suggesting_ , now,” he begins, sauntering over to her with his hands in his pockets, “but there’s more than one way to celebrate.”

He slides his fingers over her hips, and she laughs.

“At least let me finish running the bath….”

\--

And then it’s six. Ish. They’re not really sure anymore.

They’re fucking in that room off the Commons Lobby because he made a deal with Evans, and Sirius isn’t able to hold off McKinnon from bursting into the room.

“Oh holy fucking hell on a stick,” she says, and flees.

Evans comes by Downing in the morning to assure him that McKinnon can be trusted, and also to reclaim her end of the bargain (over the back of the sofa because she has this terrific kink about fucking him in his office).

Evans is trying so very, very hard to be quiet, which ends up completely backfiring because Peter foolishly thinks they’ve learned their lesson.

And so when Miranda hears that Evans is in the office, she walks straight in with the latest findings, and that makes seven.

Miranda is very good, though, and she promises not to tell a soul. She likes James, she swears, and Evans, and she’d never want either of them to get unwanted attention like that.

Hands covering his parts, James interrupts her to say he believes her, and asks her to please leave immediately.

He and Evans break down into a fit of laughter once Miranda’s finally run away, and after they’ve finished where they left off, they try to spoon on the sofa. It’s too uncomfortable and too narrow, though, and they give up for the moment.

“Mind if I spend a few pounds on a new sofa?” He knots his tie.

“Mm, I dunno.” She slips on a shoe. “I’ve grown rather fond of this one.”

They try again in a hotel outside Leeds, after a raucous early morning, and he tucks his head on top of her shoulder, one hand idly tracing along her hip bone.

“And he said, ‘I will _never_ bloody let that happen,’ and then he finally stormed off.” Evans is speaking softly, but James can hear the triumphant smile on her face.

He presses a kiss to her neck. “I didn’t know he could do that.”

She hums contentedly. “He’s got an awful sore spot over those sorts of tax reforms. I’m surprised Remus didn’t tell you.”

“We don’t know everything, actually.”

“Well, make sure Miranda knows, or she’ll never get anywhere with it. Also that he’s got a bastard son in Wales that he doesn’t want people to know about.”

“Will do.”

He lets his fingers dip down along her stomach, circling around her belly button, and she shudders, laughing a bit.

“Don’t get me riled up, Potter. You don’t have time to follow through.”

“Never again,” he promises.

She says nothing for a few moments, and then she shifts around to lie on her back, his arm still underneath her neck, and looks him in the eye.

“I want you to take all these savings I’m finding for you,” she says, “and give them back to the people.”

“Oh.” He blinks, but only at the sudden change in topic. “Like a tax refund?”

“No, put them into services. NHS, or benefits, or anything like that. I don’t care. Just make sure it’s not wasted, all right?”

“Is that what this is all about?”

The gentle look on her face shatters, and she starts to move away, but James wraps his arms around her and kisses her soundly.

“Don’t,” he breathes against her lips. “I think that’s brilliant.”

Her eyelids squeeze shut. “It sounds so naïve.”

“It’s not. It’s really, really not.”

Her eyes open again, searching his, and then the corners of her lips turn up ever so slightly.

“I didn’t want to like you,” she says.

“I’m just contrarian that way. And damned charming, too, or so the focus groups say.”

One of her hands wanders up to cup his face, her fingers running lightly over his morning stubble.

“Don’t let me down,” she says.

It feels like something is pulling at his chest, a warm, pleasant tug that feels like Lily playing with his tie, only better.

He swore an oath when he took office, but this covenant he’s making with her now resonates deeper.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I won’t.”

\--

It hasn’t come to that yet, though. He’s not positive he can manage what she wants, but he’ll fucking try at it, and do his best for every project she’s brought up.

Of course, it’s not as simple as Lily wishes it were. There’s some completely outdated rule on the books that’s holding up the environmental review process, and it needs to go.

Vance accuses him of corporate welfare, but it’s really, truly not. It’s just getting rid of some stupid thing they don’t even care about anymore, but suddenly it’s been blown completely out of proportion, and Remus has to lie down on the ground in James’s office after a particularly rough afternoon on the phone with the press (he won’t touch the sofa anymore, and James can’t blame him).

“This is so trivial.” Peter tucks his legs under him on the armchair. “Can’t we just leave it?”

“Politically at this point,” Sirius says, lounging on top of a blanket laid over the sofa, “it’ll look really fucking awful if he gives up such a minor point.”

“It’s just the right fucking thing to do!” James paces around his desk. “I mean, honestly, I fucking _love_ the environment, but this stupid fucking rule adds days to the process, and they don’t even _need_ it—”

“We _know_.” Remus rubs his temples. “There must be a way out of this.”

“Ask Evans to do it,” Sirius says. “It’s her bloody project anyway.”

“There’s a thought.” Remus groans and pushes himself half-upright on his elbows. “Make her take some of the heat.”

“She brings it up,” James says, “and I do the work—”

“Miranda does the work,” Peter says.

“Yeah, whatever, we do the work.”

“But we need her help,” Remus says. “Vance is giving me a migraine….”

Which is, naturally, the final straw for James.

Lily rallies all her journalist friends and gives a miraculously plain-spoken press conference – she knows how to phrase things so they make _sense_. James isn’t half bad at it, either, but he’s been around politicians for too fucking long.

Besides, the press love him, but they _adore_ Lily. If she’s behind this change, it must be related to her efficiency work, and therefore it must be good.

She runs with it and eventually, after a ridiculous amount of negotiating later, they get it through and all’s well on that front.

He gets a thank-you note from the staff.

Lily, of course, gets a whole basket of chocolates, but that’s fine. Credit where credit is due.

\--

And then seven becomes a highly problematic eight.

James is just zipping up in the loo at Westminster when Riddle strolls in.

“Ah, Prime Minister,” Riddle says, in that vaguely contemptible way he tends to use with James. “Interesting touch on the education program.”

“Cheers.” James is so tremendously glad Riddle didn’t walk in a moment sooner. He doesn’t want Riddle to see any part of him, especially not his cock.

Riddle turns on the faucet and begins meticulously washing his hands.

James debates not washing up so he doesn’t have to be alone with Riddle a moment longer, but he also doesn’t want word getting around that he has poor hygiene.

Unfortunately there are only two sinks in this cramped, antique toilet.

James starts the quickest wash he’s ever done, but it’s not fucking quick enough, and his shoulder keeps brushing against Riddle’s.

“Evans does seem to be a thorn in your side,” Riddle says smoothly, trying to get something out from under his fingernail (probably the blood of a virgin or something), “doesn’t she?”

James forces himself to breathe normally and shuts off the faucet. “She’s never wrong, though.”

“We’re so fortunate to have her as an MP.”

Riddle is really fucking creepy, but somehow no one else seems to notice it. James wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s secretly murdering people. And then eating them.

“Yeah,” James says brusquely, and snatches a few paper towels for the road.

He’s just cracking open the door with his wet hand when Riddle asks, “Is she a good fuck?”

The words echo around the tiny, tiled walls, and James lets the door thump shut.

He spins to face Riddle. “Sorry, _what_?”

“You’re fucking her, aren’t you?” Riddle turns off the faucet and glances absently at James in the mirror. “I have it on very good authority you two have been shagging for months. In numerous locations, I’ve been informed.”

It’s incomprehensible that Riddle knows. He must be guessing. He _must_.

“We still have slander laws in this country,” James says. “In case you weren’t aware.”

“It’s not slander if it’s true, though.” Riddle pulls down one paper towel and begins rubbing it over his hands. “And I know it to be true.”

“Reduced to tawdry gossip? Must be slipping in your old age.”

“Much like slander, simply calling it gossip doesn’t make it untrue.” Riddle disposes of the towel and retrieves another. “I thought you should be prepared for the evening news. Consider it a courtesy.”

Which is a load of bullocks – if there are stories coming out, Riddle wants James to know he was behind it.

And Riddle doesn’t make idle threats.

James fears his pounding heartbeat will soon start echoing around them, so he yanks the door open again.

“Lovely chatting with you,” he says. Of course, he means _please fuck off and die_ , but Riddle won’t do that until James is long out of office, probably out of stubbornness. “Always such a pleasure.”

He barely manages not to run back to his office. Ellsworth sends him a concerned look as they speed out to the car, but James shakes his head – there’s nothing Ellsworth can do.

Remus is waiting in the car, and he can.

“Call Lily’s office on that bloody mobile.” James crawls onto the seat. “Warn her we’re about to be outed by the press tonight.”

Remus looks up from his magazine and sighs. “We knew it would happen eventually.”

Of course the press was going to find out. James knew that. He _knew_ it.

He just hoped…well, he’d hoped.

\--

Lily is in his office within the hour. If Riddle was bluffing and the papers aren’t covering it, James can just say he was warning her of an impending, terrible rumor.

They gather on the antique furniture that still hasn’t been replaced, with James and Lily tucked up on their sofa. By the time Peter joins them, James has caught her up on all the progress made with the Y2K program

“I called around,” Peter says glumly. “They’ve got photos.”

“Fuck,” Lily says. “Of which time?”

“Nothing—nothing like that.” Peter blushes. “I mean, of the two of you entering the same hotels, or buildings, or things like that.”

“I told you we had to shut the curtains.” Lily swats James’s knee. “Think what they’d have had if we’d left them open.”

“But none of us actually fucking?” James asks Peter.

Peter shakes his head.

“Well, that’s something, right?”

Sirius looks up from his book. “Don’t be thick.”

“Not being thick,” James mutters.

Lily, sensibly, looks to Remus. “So what’s our cover?”

“You’re dating,” Sirius says absently, eyes fixed back on the pages in front of him.

“What are you even doing here?” Lily asks Sirius. “Do you ever even show up to the House of Lords? Have you ever even cast a vote?”

Sirius waves a lazy hand. That doesn’t answer the question, of course, and Lily turns to James, annoyed.

“Er, right,” James says. “I think Evans and I need to talk in private, yeah?”

They take their teacups (flask, in Sirius’s case) and head out to circle around Peter’s desk, probably to eavesdrop. James can’t blame them – their jobs are at stake. Except Sirius, who bitches about James not having any free time but is secretly dead pleased his best mate won the election.

While his mates leave the room the way they do everything—that is to say, with some ambient level of ribbing and snark—Lily has wandered over to his desk. She picks up a few trinkets he’s lined up around his lamp and inspects them. The pound he found on the ground the day he won the election, a golden stress ball with wings printed on the side, a rock Lily picked out for him on the beach at Brighton.

“We don’t have to admit to anything,” James says from the sofa.

She doesn’t answer at first, but then she purposefully sets the rock back down and turns toward him.

“My personal expenses are private,” she says, “but it looks bloody suspicious that I ended up in the same town with you all those times.”

“Took longer than if we’d stuck to London.”

She nods absently and leans back against the edge of the desk, her arms folded.

“It had to happen eventually,” James tries.

Trying for what, he’s not sure. Trying to persuade her back across the room, maybe, or trying to erase that half-frown off her face.

“I know,” she says.

“So what…what do you want to do? We can try to say it was nothing.”

“But then we can’t do it anymore.”

“No. We can’t.”

And that’s it. This is the end of their fun. If they deny it, they can’t do it again. If they admit to it, it still won’t happen again, or at least not like they’ve been doing it.

He’s not sure what that would look like, actually.

“They wouldn’t buy that it was nothing.” Lily ducks her head. “I mean, assuming they’ve got us on more than one occasion.”

“No, they probably wouldn’t.”

“So we can’t tell them that,” she says. “So we have to admit to it?”

“Admit to meeting, anyway. Nothing beyond that. Could try to pass it off as emergency meetings on the projects you’ve been bringing up.”

She sends him a flat look.

“Rubbish, I know.”

“If we admit to meeting over top secret business, we still can’t do it anymore.”

“I could have a secret tunnel installed to run between our offices.”

“Too much money.”

“And traffic’s already a nightmare around here. I couldn’t put up with the detours.”

Her lips quirk at that, and she picks up the rock by his lamp again, turning it over in her hands.

“Unless,” he says, forcing a smile, “we do say we were really dating all along.”

“We could do that,” she allows.

“We could say it’s over now, though. That we’re through. Then they’d hopefully move on fairly soon.”

“And then we still couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Well, no.”

He doesn’t say that there’s only one way for it to continue. He doesn’t have to.

“My constituents...” She pauses. “Well, I don’t really care what they think about this, actually.”

“You will when they vote you out next time. If they do, I mean. I would hope they wouldn’t over this. Compared to all the good things you do.”

“But this is what I’ll be known for. Shagging the Prime Minister.”

“We won’t tell them we did.”

“We won’t have to.”

“I’m sorry I’ve fucked up your reputation.” He’s suddenly standing up and he’s not sure why. “This was—this was really stupid of me to start up—”

“ _No_. Don’t even start with that rubbish.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Well. Fine, I won’t. But I am sorry—I’m sorry you’re in this position.”

“We’re in this position.”

“You’ll bear the brunt of it, though, won’t you?”

She nods without looking at him.

“I’ll do whatever you want. Either way,” he says. “It’s only fair, and I’m fine—I’ll be fine.” He forces his hands to his sides. “So do you want to stop? I won’t bother you—”

“I don’t want it to stop,” she says quietly.

“Oh. Er. Right.” His heart dances the conga again, this time more emphatically. “Then we’ll say that we’re, um.”

“Dating.”

“Yeah, that. Actively.”

“We’ll have to—we’ll have to go on dates.”

“We can just shag if you want. I mean, pretend to date but really just keep on as we were, only I reckon we can get away with it more in London now, actually, although it’ll be a bit weird with all the tabloids stalking us—”

“Pretend to date?”

“Well, I dunno, just throwing out some options for you….”

“D’you think I’m agreeing to this out of—what, pity? Or to protect my reputation?”

“No, that’s not at all—you just seem a bit, er, reluctant, and I don’t want you to feel forced—”

She sends him a flat look. “You think you can force me.”

“Christ, no. I’m just—I dunno.”

“I’m doing this because I want to.”

“Oh. Well, good.”

“I’m pissed off at Riddle, and at the fuckwit that told him about us.”

“I’m going to look into it—”

“I know you are, and so am I, and we’re going to burn someone to the ground, I know. It’s not you that I’m upset with here, it’s fucking Riddle, and that he’s forced our hand in all this.”

“Oh. That’s a lot more…I can get that. Did I tell you he confronted me in the loo?”

She laughs. “He didn’t really, though? He’s such a fucking psychopath.”

“I did actually wonder if he’d just strangle me then and there.”

“You make Ellsworth wait outside?”

“He has to hear me fucking sometimes, I’m not going to make him actually look at my prick.”

“Decent of you.”

“I thought so.”

Lily finally pushes off the desk and steps toward him. “We’re agreed on a course of action, then.”

This is…this is good, really. She’s great, and they work, and they’re—only it’s so quick.

It’s stupid, really, that his palms have gone damp. They’ve been fucking for months – he knows every inch of her, and she him, and his body shouldn’t be so fucking edgy.

But it is, and it doesn’t care whether that’s stupid or not.

“Then, er,” he says, “fancy going out with me, Evans?”

“You can’t call me that anymore – the press will have a field day.” She raises her eyebrows. “But yes.”

And that’s that. They’re a noun now: a couple.

“I’m not sure what this is going to be like. Lily.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of the press? No. Of Riddle? Yeah, a bit. Of this….” He pauses because she’s right in front of him now. “Only in a good way.”

“Don’t worry.” She leans in against him, her perfect fucking breasts brushing against his chest. “I won’t tell the press you came in your pants the first time.”

“Mm,” he says as her hand snakes up to toy with his tie, “much appreciated.”

“At least,” she adds, standing on her toes to hold her mouth just out of range of his, “so long as you fuck me on the sofa before the press conference.”

“What about Peter. And Remus. And Sirius. And probably Miranda, too, come to think of it.”

“Do I look like I care?”

He kisses her, laughing into her mouth, and wraps his arms around her perfect fucking waist.

“No,” he says.

“I’ll show up to the press conference with you if you do.”

“That wasn’t a given?”

“Well, it was, just like it was a given that Remus has already called it.”

“Safe enough bet, yeah. But you’ll be there?”

“Wouldn’t be much of a press conference without me.”

“Excellent,” he says, and he can feel her grin against his lips. “Let’s go not give a fuck together.”


End file.
